


And They Stayed Until Morning

by dragonofdispair



Series: Morning [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Contraception, Crying, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-War, Rough Sex, Safewords, Self bondage, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Studded Condom, Threesome, Video Recordings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-13 16:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Prowl trusses himself up so sexily, hoping Jazz’ll frag him when he gets home. Which Jazz will… eventually, but he knows how much Prowl likes being toyed with and he’s got a surprise of his own for his Pet.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl, Prowl/Ricochet
Series: Morning [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553491
Comments: 39
Kudos: 134





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Having a Good Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20608142) by [HappyHour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyHour/pseuds/HappyHour). 

> Inspired by _Having a Good Time_ by HappyHour, which is a great little piece and I have _not_ been able to get the image of Prowl tying himself to the wall out of my head at _all._ HappyHour’s is a sweet, light and playful piece and I love it and _very much_ recommend it (**Go read it!** They spend much more time on Prowl actually tying himself up than I do, because I really couldn’t do it better!), but since then I’ve been imagining if Jazz was a little bit more… cruel about the whole thing (but in a good way!) so here it is.
> 
> Not beta’d

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.

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Knees spread as far apart as he could get them with his ankles cuffed to the spreader bar, Prowl eased himself down onto the silicone spike secured to the floor. It was larger than a real spike for his frametype and it ached while it slid in despite the lube he’d used. He hissed at the painful stretch. He could feel each thick ridge of the toy’s texture almost as a _thud_ as they stretched him even more, slid into him, then let him fall to the top of the next ridge without the overall thickness changing enough to give him relief.

Finally, he reached the flared base of the toy, suctioned to the floor. The wide head of the toy rested almost painfully at the top of his valve and his legs trembled with pain and relief from having to hold himself up while held apart by the bar. Prowl let himself lean forward and groan and pant. Owww… Soon, he knew his calipers would relax and the mesh would stretch around the toy and he’d be able to move on it with much less pain, but right now he savored being stretched open further than his body had been designed to be, the sharp warning twinges that said he could tear himself if he moved too quickly on this monster of a spike (the fantasy of being tied up, held down, while this monster took his pleasure and left Prowl a sobbing, twitching wreck…).

When the throbbing ebbed, Prowl moved again, sitting up to fish the small video recorder from between his legs. This was for him, not Jazz. This spike was already one of the largest Prowl could take without guaranteeing he’d damage himself, and if he used it regularly, he’d grow used to it and it’d lose its appeal. It had happened before, pushing him wider and wider until he’d bought this one, meant to be a comfortable fit for a convoy class mech. Jazz had forbidden him from using it regularly, forcing him to find some way to make do with his more reasonably-sized ones most of the time. So he’d watch this video of him slowly sinking down onto this spike, forcing himself open, struggling to accommodate it while he rode one of his others.

But that was for later. He subspaced the recorder.

Trying not to wiggle too much on the toy impaling him, Prowl eased the corresponding toy onto his extended spike. He turned the vibration on low, moaning softly, and moved the control out of easy reach.

The pleasure and pleasure/pain from his spike and valve was distracting while he finished trussing himself up. Jazz wouldn’t be interested in Prowl just indulging in his large-spike kink. He’d smile and kiss Prowl, maybe pet him a bit, but he’d leave Prowl to his playtime without interfering. If Prowl wanted to interest Jazz, to entice him to play with him, to toy with him and take his pleasure, he needed to do more.

The collars were a good start. The thick, cushioned one with the loops held him upright once he’d chained it to the loop in the wall, but the thinner, longer necklace chain that Prowl padlocked closed stated clearly that he was a pet, a slave, a toy. The tags engraved with _Property of Jazz_ and _His name is Pet. Feel free to fuck him, but be careful: he bites (—‿❛ )✧ ~Jazz_ clinked musically against his collar faring. Jazz hadn’t actually shared him yet, but they’d discussed it, and Prowl fingered the permission tag with mingled excitement and anxiety which burned in his tank and made his valve try to clench around the massive intruder. He was safe, kneeling in their bedroom, but he knew that every time he put this particular necklace on he was giving Jazz permission and that Jazz wouldn’t necessarily warn him before handing him over to a friend or stranger.

Moaning at the thought. Nervous, excited, humiliated… sparks danced over his plating. Prowl took a deep breath and continued. Jazz liked him utterly helpless, so Prowl finished tying down his doors with the specially made sensor-blocking cloth “blindfolds”. Without them, he couldn’t feel EM fields or air currents, and with the matching chevron-cover and blindfold he couldn’t see at all and he could only pick up on a single radio frequency.

And of course, no matter what his tags said, he couldn’t bite through a ball gag that forced his mouth open at a painful, exhausting angle.

He finished up by cuffing himself to the last chain hanging from the wall. These were the only ones with a quick-release lever but Jazz insisted. Forced to kneel with his legs open wide, his head up, his shoulders pulled back, chest out and on display for whoever might walk into the room, blind to everything going on around him, it hardly mattered that his inability to escape was an illusion. He couldn’t even ride the massive spike in his valve properly. Big as it was, he couldn’t get the friction needed to get off. Moaning, he focused his attention on his spike. The pleasant vibrations could be felt all the way to his spinal struts but weren’t strong enough to push his arousal higher on their own. Again his position denied him the ability to thrust, or anything to thrust against.

Prowl knew what sort of utterly irresistible picture he made. Now all he had to do was wait for Jazz to get home.

Unable to see or sense anything beyond the sensor-blinding material besides the quiet of the room, Prowl went ahead and turned off his optics and focused on his body. The position wasn’t uncomfortable, precisely, but it wasn’t comfortable either and he couldn’t help but try and pull against his bonds. Release lever or no, the cuffs were _strong_ and any attempt to relieve the strain on his shoulders just pulled painfully on his wrists. Trying to lean forward, strained his shoulders and made the collar press against the energon lines in his neck.

Prowl whined. He twisted, and that sent a shock of pleasure/pain up through his valve and crackling along his spinal struts, and he did it again trying to overload… but he couldn’t. He didn’t have enough flex in his shoulders to do more than wiggle helplessly.

He was panting, practically begging the empty room when he heard the front door open. His doors tried to flare outward, to scan for the person entering, and were stopped short by the sensor-blocking restraints.

He heard Jazz’s laugh and whined again, this time in relief that his torment would soon be over. He almost didn’t catch the second voice, then the third. Fourth? He couldn’t tell.

No no… Jazz hadn’t said anything about having company over, but Prowl hadn’t exactly asked, and hadn’t warned him of his plans. He twisted again, this time trying to escape his bonds rather than to pleasure himself. He hadn’t forgotten the release lever, but the tag on chain proclaiming Jazz’s permission for anyone to fuck him burned against his collar struts. Prowl couldn’t decide if he wanted Jazz to come in and finally make good on that promise or if he wanted to escape for real. So he twisted and yanked and fought the chains as though he didn’t have an easy way out until he exhausted himself.

He sagged in the chains, anxious, aching and humiliated but willing to submit.

“That was a lovely surprise to walk in on,” Jazz drawled, voice simultaneously too close and too far away.

“Mmmph!” Prowl yelped through the gag, flinching away and squirming in his bonds. Jazz chuckled, and Prowl strained to hear if his friends had followed him. If they had, they were being quiet, which made Prowl think they were still in the front room, but he couldn’t be sure.

Jazz’s frame was silent. Prowl didn’t hear his footsteps, didn’t hear so much as a whisper of movement until he settled in front of Prowl and leaned forward to steal a kiss from the corner of Prowl’s aching mouth. He laughed again. “You’re drooling, Pet.”

Shame burned in Prowl’s tank, and his valve tried to clench. Primus. He hadn’t even noticed! But now that it had been pointed out, he could feel nothing except the cool line of liquid that had dribbled from his mouth and down his chin and even onto the shallow curve of his hood where it flowed down to his bumper and dripped off, presumably to pool on the floor near his spike. He felt his plating heat in an embarrassed blush. Something about being seen by Jazz’s friends _drooling all over himself_ discomfited and aroused him in a way even the possibility that they were about to frag him didn’t.

Fingers wiped up a little of the cooling oral fluid, and Prowl flinched, gasping when that coolness was spread over his spike. The gasp quickly turned to a needy, demanding whine as he thrust into Jazz’s hands. It felt _perfect_ with the relentless, too-gentle vibration, and—

_No!_ That helpful pressure withdrew, leaving Prowl hot and _wanting._ “Mmmff!”

Jazz kissed him again, right on that line of drool. “I have to go out and play host,” and the sudden confirmation that they were alone in the room, if not the apartment, made Prowl sob in relief and released tension. Fingers dug into his subspace, searching, and Prowl wiggled. Then whine-gasped when he heard the video recorder he’d used earlier turn on, the whir of the lens focusing. “But I don’t want to miss a nanoklik of this, so I’ll just take this and you be sure to put on a good show for me, alright Pet.”

Another kiss and Jazz’s heat left him. Prowl strained to listen while he set up the recorder, then went to the drawer next to the bed — to retrieve the tiny wristband screen so he could watch privately, or the remote so he could play his pet’s “show” on the big screen, Prowl didn’t know. He whined uncertainly.

He received a generalized _query_ over the one radio frequency still open to him: Jazz asking if he was alright with what was happening.

Prowl wasn’t fine. He didn’t want to be seen like this, but he couldn’t deny how aroused he was. He enjoyed being treated like a pet, a plaything, and they’d _talked_ about involving others in the game. About how he’d feel to be shared like a common toy. The uncertainty of _would Jazz do it now_ was almost painful, and nothing could make the humiliation, _debasement,_ of being seen like this comfortable, but it felt… He didn’t want it, but he also _did._

_Green,_ he sent back, giving Jazz permission to proceed as he would with this game.

“Perfect,” Jazz purred. Prowl heard overhead lights flip on, and the recorder’s lens whirred as it readjusted to the sudden illumination. “Remember, I’ll be watching.”

Him, and maybe who knew how many others.

The door clicked closed on Prowl’s answering mewl.

The indignity of his helpless squirming being recorded and viewed (and critiqued and judged) was hotter than simple anticipation had been. Prowl twisted back and forth, trying to rock and thrust, to give Jazz (and the others) the show he’d been commanded to, only to whine in frustration at his helplessness. Now that he knew the lights were on, every detail of him exposed to the camera, he could feel the accumulated lube and pre-transfluid squishing around where he was being forced to kneel in his own fluids.

Tied and collared, covered in his own drool and smeared in unguent and silvery cum. Who could possibly respect him as an officer now? No one. If word of this got back to his boss…

The truth struck him: he wasn’t irresistible. He was messy and dirty and helpless. A plaything. A _toy,_ no different than the one currently lodged into his valve, to be used for Jazz’s and his guests’ pleasure, but until then he was going to languish in his drawer like any other unneeded tool. He sobbed and arched his back as a weak flare of lightning danced over his plating and he overloaded.

He was even messier now, he thought with another sob.

The generalized _query_ hitting his comsuite should have comforted him. Jazz was watching, and he cared and would come to comfort him if he needed it, but to Prowl it only confirmed beyond a doubt that his humiliation was being witnessed. Was he okay with that? His tank roiled at the thought of having to _admit_ to his desire, but he sent back _green._

The recorder whirred, reminding him he was supposed to put on a show, and weakly he wiggled, too lost in his thoughts to really feel what he was doing anymore. His joints hurt and his valve ached and his plating felt oversensitive, but he was being _watched._ He could hear the faint up and down cadence of a conversation in at least three voices, but without the additional sensors from his doorwings, he could only imagine what they might be saying as they laughed and joked to each other…

He heard the front door open again, a few more minutes of conversation, then it closed again, bringing Prowl crashing out of his headspace with a gasp. Jazz must have kept his show private, he thought logically. It was one of the rules, from when they’d actually talked about this: if anyone else was going to be involved in their play, they had to stick around for introductions and aftercare.

Prowl panted. His frame was running hot, but he still felt cold, and he could now feel the tears that had soaked through the blindfold and run down his face. He suddenly wasn’t sure what he felt about his humiliation being kept private, about _not_ being fragged raw by Jazz’s friends. Now that the possibility had been taken away, Prowl realized just how much he’d _wanted_ that final degradation…

“Fragging lazy aft,” a new voice cursed from just beyond the bedroom door and Prowl stiffened. That wasn’t Jazz! _Yes! No!_ Prowl struggled again, his will suddenly renewed. Then he froze in place as the door opened. “‘Could you _please_ go get—’” Ricochet’s mocking impression of Jazz died as his optic band fell on the trussed-up Praxan. He took a moment, a moment in which Prowl didn’t dare even to twitch. He wished he could see!

“Frag…” Ricochet sighed. He was not as silent as Jazz, so Prowl heard the soft _thump, thump_ of his footsteps as he finished entering the room and then closed the door behind him.

Prowl shivered, listening to the other mech approach. He whined in stress. He knew Ricochet, but he didn’t _like_ Ricochet. Ricochet was nothing but a petty thief! This was worse than being fragged by a stranger! And yet… just a klik ago he’d been disappointed that Jazz hadn’t humiliated him _enough._ “Nnnnn…”

“Did a number on yourself,” Ricochet commented, crouching down in front of Prowl. Clawed fingers fondled the padlock and the chain around Prowl’s neck, nestled under the collar that actually held his head in place. Unerringly, he picked out the tag that gave anyone and everyone permission to take advantage of Prowl’s helpless state, and Prowl felt his plating heat again, knowing exactly what Ricochet was reading. He huffed a laugh. “Bites, huh. Guess that means this,” Prowl felt him tap against the ball gag, “stays where it is. Gonna need a safeword though. Ain’t gonna be a part of this unless I get some sort of okay.”

Shivering and feeling sick with shame, Prowl sent the _green_ signal again. Ricochet twitched.

“Good enough. Guessing that’s a standard green/yellow/red signal?”

Prowl nodded.

“Perfect. Let me know if that changes.” Claws wiped away his tears, and Prowl would have shied away, hiding his disheveled state, if he could have.

Ricochet moved around him, jerked on the chains, and suddenly Prowl found himself released from the wall. He pitched forward with an alarmed shout, and Ricochet, the jerk, let him fall and land face-first on the floor. The over-large spike _popped_ free of its suction on the floor, and Prowl groaned in pain. His valve had lubricated itself so that the little bit of movement he’d been capable of while bound didn’t do more than ache, but the sudden movement had sent a delicious amount of pain through his entire core. Free — ish — Prowl tried to push himself back upright. His hands were still bound behind his back, and he wouldn’t be walking anywhere with his doorwings bound, but he wasn’t going to just flail around for Ricochet’s amusement!

Chuckling, Ricochet held him in place with one hand. “Let’s just…” Prowl felt his tormenter’s knee between his spread legs, and he expected Ricochet to yank out the spike so he could take his own pleasure, but instead he thrust the toy back _into_ his valve, shoving it hard until it hit the top of his valve and _pushed._ Prowl screeched incoherently. “Keep that in place. Ain’t interested in your _valve,_ Pet.”

Face down in the carpet, and aft up in the air, Prowl screeched again when lubed-up fingers pressed into his aft-port. He wasn’t!

A squirt of cool lubricant from the bottle Prowl had used to get the giant spike into his valve went right into the port and Prowl squirmed. He was! “Mmck!”

Prowl writhed in humiliated denial, even as his arousal climbed. This was _Ricochet,_ the absolute last person Prowl would have ever wanted to frag him, and he was… was… Fingers stretched him wider but didn’t plunge deep to prepare him thoroughly.

“S’gonna be super tight,” Ricochet grunted almost apologetically. “Can’t reach down where I can’t see what I’m doing. Claws.”

That did make sense, but it meant — Prowl felt more lube hit his barely widened hole, then heard Ricochet squirt more. The fingers were replaced by the wide, flared head of a very slick spike. Ricochet _pushed._

It almost didn’t matter that he was slick, that they were both slick with so much fluid. Prowl screeched at the invasion, and Ricochet laughed, then grunted and growled, pushing deeper. Prowl writhed, struggling. How deep was he going to go?! Prowl had never been fragged like this, and Ricochet was going slow but he wasn’t prepared at all for this channel to be forced open. And with the toy still in his valve… he didn’t have the room!

Prowl sobbed.

“Almost there, Pet,” Ricochet reassured a moment before he bottomed out and his spike housing hit Prowl’s aft. “So what’s the appeal for you?” he moaned while Prowl continued to sob quietly. “You wanna be pet and loved and cared for, or treated like a common plaything?” Prowl couldn’t help how his whole frame hitched on the words, and Ricochet chuckled again. “Thought so. Scene I walked in on, being handed over to me without so much as a warning — I know just how much you like me, don’t deny it!”

He wasn’t, exactly, but he realized he’d shaken his head in a denial of what Ricochet was saying. Prowl _wanted_ to be played with, humiliated, defiled, but it was crushing enough to constantly have to affirm that he was alright when Jazz asked for his safeword. He didn’t want to listen to Ricochet say it aloud!

“How’s it feel? Big, bad police officer helpless and held down and _used_ by the likes of me?” Ricochet murmured, staying utterly still while Prowl’s body adjusted to this novel invasion. “Fucked by a petty criminal. Fucked in the _aft_ even.”

Prowl couldn’t help but let out a moan. He could feel his traitorous frame heating with shame and arousal. Fucked by a petty criminal indeed. He was supposed to be entirely out of the reach of the likes of Ricochet, but here he was. Being used like a common fragtoy.

“Good mechs don’t take it up the aft, do they?” Ricochet asked viciously, finally moving, thrusting. Prowl couldn’t exactly say it was pleasurable, but the movement was smooth and easy and the only pain was from his spike being forced to share space with the toy. “Well, you’re taking it now. I’m going to fill up your last virgin hole with my ‘fluid and you are going to _like it_ aren’t you?”

Clawed fingers, slick with lube and who knew what else wrapped around Prowl’s spike, and the shame-pleasure conjured by Ricochet’s words turned to burning, frantic pleasure and _need_ as the pressure was added to the relentless, gentle vibration he’d almost forgotten was there. “Mmkk!”

“Of course you are,” Ricochet said, and Prowl would have liked to tune him out, pretend he wasn’t there, but every scrap of his limited sensory experience was _Ricochet_ and he was hyper-focused on the acidic, abasing words as a result. “You’d like it even if I didn’t have my hands on your filthy spike.” Ricochet thrust again, and this time Prowl arched into it with a moan that was more want than denial. “Playthings take it wherever their owners stick it in them, and look at this mess you made begging to be properly fragged. You’re lucky I needed to get off so bad, or I wouldn’t have bothered with such a messy, needy thing…”

Ricochet kept talking, putting Prowl’s every filthy, depraved desire into words that he couldn’t ignore, couldn’t turn away from. Prowl nodded and sobbed and cried out as he was fragged roughly in the aft by someone he detested. His humiliation was complete. It certainly couldn’t get wor—

“Jazz is watching us,” Ricochet whispered gleefully.

Prowl overloaded with a muffled scream.

He didn’t feel Ricochet follow, but he felt the mech collapse across his back, squishing his restrained doorwings. His spike depressurized and slowly slide out of Prowl’s aft port with a sickening squelch. “Frag…”

Prowl sniveled. He could feel the tears soaking through his blindfold again.

“You want him facing up or face down?” Ricochet asked, and Prowl’s shattered thoughts couldn’t make sense of the question. The vibration on his spike was gone. Suddenly his hands were released from the cuffs — too quickly for Ricochet to have used the key — and he started in on the buckles securing his ankles to the spreader bar.

“Face up,” Jazz answered the question from somewhere in the darkness.

The buckles released and Prowl was picked up and thrown over Ricochet’s shoulder like a sack of scrap. Just a toy. A plaything. His engine hiccuped, and he wept.

He was laid down, face-up, on the bed. A spike slid into his valve easily. “Frag, Prowl,” and Prowl flinched from the annoyance. “I’m going to forbid you from using that toy in the future for this game. There are sloppy seconds and then there’s _this.”_

The gag was unclipped, lifted away. Prowl whimpered. “S-ss…”

“I liked it,” Ricochet said viciously. “Made him tighter than the aft-virgin he… well, that he _was.”_

Jazz kissed him, swallowing his answering sob. “It’s alright, Pet. I’ll just have to frag you harder.”

Prowl hiccuped as Jazz picked up the pace. There was very little friction in his valve, but he felt the impact every time Jazz bottomed out, his spike housing hitting and grinding against Prowl’s valve opening with a bruising _smack!_ But Jazz was fragging him. He needed that, or else he knew he’d crash too hard. He’d done it all, trussed himself up and made a mess of himself for Jazz. Well, not the too-big toy spike. That had been for him. It’d been a mistake, he’d use a smaller one next time, for Jazz. As long as Jazz wanted him, it’d be okay…

“Can barely feel anything,” Jazz complained. He repositioned Prowl, pulling his legs up around his waist, so he could drive his whole weight into his Pet. He pinned his hands and slammed down on Prowl with all his considerable strength and fucked him hard enough to shake the whole bed while Ricochet laughed.

Despite his stated derision with how stretched and loose he was, Jazz overloaded in his valve quickly.

Jazz laid down next to him, and Prowl curled up in his arms, shivering. “Let’s get these blindfolds off of you,” he whispered, lifting away the cloth covering his optics and chevron. Prowl blinked at him, trying to make sense of the patterns of light and darkness while his doorwings were released. “You want to cuddle here or the bath.”

Prowl — still more than halfway the disgraced Pet, more than a little bit just a failure of a toy and plaything — just blinked.

A heavy blanket settled over them both, and Ricochet climbed into bed with them. “We’ll cuddle here and clean up later. It’s not like your bed isn’t a lost cause already.” Prowl was pulled a little bit out of Jazz’s arms and against Ricochet’s warm, dark chest. Jazz huffed at his twin and scooted closer. He wrapped his arms around Prowl to hold him tightly, while Ricochet threw his arm and one leg over them both. It was very warm, and not at all like being tossed aside like a discarded plaything. He hiccuped, then sighed.

“I love you, Prowl,” Jazz whispered. “Was it everything you’d imagined?”

Doorwings twitched where Ricochet pinned them. Prowl licked his lips; his whole mouth ached. “Yeah,” he croaked. He shivered, despite the warmth. He wanted them both to stay. Fortunately, they didn’t seem interested in leaving. Still, “Stay with me?”

“Always,” Jazz answered immediately.

“Fer a while,” Ricochet drawled, then yawned. He patted Prowl’s aft through the blanket. “Hey. Next time Jazz can sell you to me for a few hours.” He chuckled at the thought. “You like that? Sold like a whore by your pimp?”

Shame coiled in Prowl’s tank, heating his frame, and he mumbled an affirmative into Jazz’s chest. But Ricochet was staying even though Prowl wasn’t servicing him anymore, he’d been gentle where it mattered, and asked about safewords… Prowl had felt how Ricochet treated his playthings, and he detested him a little less.

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	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo… I sat down to write about these three doing a prostitution role play and ended up writing more aftercare (which I blame on Riz). Also more sex (which I blame on Ricochet). (P.S. did you know that Ao3 didn’t have a “contraception” tag? Very irresponsible of it. Well it’s got one now~♪)
> 
> Still un-beta’d.

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Prowl woke feeling warm and relaxed and calm. Clean. The faintly dusty scent of sheets “fresh” from the closet tickled his sensors. He was sandwiched between two frames and it took him several kliks to understand why there might be a third person in bed with them. Ricochet, he remembered. Prowl’s plating heated in embarrassment and shame and arousal. Jazz had finally made good on that promise to share Prowl, and he’d chosen Ricochet, someone he knew Prowl disliked, looked down on. His valve clenched and he shivered, trying to control his emotions. 

Ricochet was also Jazz’s _twin_ he also reasoned. Obviously he hadn’t _just_ chosen because he knew how humiliating it would feel for Prowl to be fragged by a petty thief, but also because Jazz trusted his twin to treat him right in the process. Which almost sent Prowl into _another_ spiral of weepy overreaction. Jazz didn’t just indulge his kinks, he protected Prowl from himself.

Prowl shook his head. This was why they — why _Jazz_ — tried to arrange for a full cycle to recover. Prowl wasn’t always emotionally stable, going from one extreme to the next and generally needy. But Jazz was still asleep. He wouldn’t mind being woken, but _Prowl_ didn’t want to start the day with a crying fit. He needed to stop thinking for a bit. 

Carefully, he eased himself out of the bed. The effort highlighted ever, single, ache in his frame, from his jaw, to his shoulders and doorwing hinges, to his valve and… and his aft port. Prowl blushed again. Fragged in the aft. Intellectually he knew mechs did it, that there shouldn’t be anything wrong with it, but it still. His creators, had they still been alive, would have disowned him instantly. His boss would probably send him to the department shrink. Good mechs — especially _tough_ mechs, _police officers_ — didn’t do that! He’d always stopped Jazz from doing it, no matter how deep in his headspace he was, but he hadn’t stopped Ricochet. It wasn’t because he couldn’t have. 

No crying. Not first thing. Prowl controlled himself and stopped in front of the dresser. He removed the collar with the loops. No restraints on aftercare day. He hesitated over the padlock necklace. The two tags gleamed in the low light. _Property of Jazz_ on one; the other read _His Name is Pet_ on one side and _Feel free to fuck him, but be careful: he bites (—‿❛ )✧ ~Jazz_ on the other. 

Usually he wouldn’t hesitate to leave it on the morning after a scene like last night’s. Being Jazz’s property could be comforting, even while he was recovering. It was the second tag that made him hesitate now. It wasn’t a problem when it was just him and Jazz, but right now Ricochet was still here. He’d said he’d stay until morning, and if he took advantage of that permission and then _left_... Prowl might not be able to stop himself from spiralling down into an emotional crash it could take hours to recover from. His self esteem could be so very fragile after a scene like that… 

No crying, he reminded himself. Not yet, anyway. Wake up properly, get some fuel, wake Jazz up, maybe put on a movie or find some other excuse to cuddle on the couch, _then_ he could start falling apart. That was the routine. Property of Jazz… Taking it off was too much responsibility too fast. He needed the freedom, the permission from himself to be an emotional mess or last night would eat him alive. He left the chain where it was and headed to the kitchen. 

Oww… walking was not what Prowl’s frame wanted to be doing right now, but it allowed him to take stock and evaluate each ache and pain. They were all in the realm of strains and overstretching, no damage. He should be 100% in another cycle, ready to go back to work. 

He left the lights out and started to make the pot of warm, sweetened, stimulant-laced fuel that would serve as both his and Jazz’s breakfasts. And Ricochet. Maybe. Prowl didn’t know how he’d like his fuel prepared, and honestly was psyching him up to telling the lowlife to _I’m not your servant — Make your own damn breakfast._ Just the thought was causing emotional conflicts. It wasn’t polite and the part of him that had snivelled and cried and agreed that he was lower than dirt while the mech violated his aft port was trying to guilt him into being nice to his temporary dom. The part that needed to reclaim his defiance was looking for an excuse to be rude. The energon heated in the brewer’s reservoir and started to drip through the sieve of additives, filling the apartment with the scent. Prowl reached up to pull two — three? _two_ — cups from the cupboard, then took them to the table by the window where he and Jazz normally ate. 

Prowl stiffened as a pair of arms wrapped around him. “‘Morning,” Ricochet drawled. His petting was possessive and a little rough, and Prowl froze _wanting/not-wanting_ to throw him off of him and yell at him for being so presumptuous! Claws found the padlock, then the two tags attached to the necklace above it. “You leave this here on purpose, Pet, or just couldn’t find the key?”

Ricochet was giving him an out. Prowl trembled, the words that he didn’t mean to still be wearing the permission tag queued up in his processor and he sent them to his vocalizer. 

“On purpose,” were the whispered words that came out. 

“Good.” Ricochet leaned against him, and Prowl could now feel the fully engorged spike pressing up against his leg. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

It was like he’d feared this morning. Ricochet was going to take him, take advantage of him, then leave and there was nothing Prowl could do about it. He was nothing, just a plaything. This was his life now… Suddenly, Ricochet’s petting turned hard and he pushed Prowl forward onto the table with one hand and hefted him up between his legs with the other. Prowl squawked. He kicked his legs against the air, squirming helplessly.

“Shh…” Ricochet cooed, petting again. Exploring. He leaned over Prowl to hold his doorwings and force Prowl to move them. Despite the tight tears coiled in his chest, Prowl moaned. “Didn’t get to play with these last night.” 

Shame mixed with the tears, but Prowl moaned again as Ricochet tweaked his way down his doors, playing with the sensitive gaps and transformation mechanisms. Then he petted down Prowl’s back and touched his aft port. Prowl sobbed. Again!/Not again!

Ricochet paused. “Those good tears, Pet? Safeword?”

Prowl choked on the word and shook his head. He’d enjoy it, being forced back down into the headspace of wanting the humiliation, but it wouldn’t be an easy climb back up. 

Already on the slippery slope down into his pet/toy mentality, he didn’t really expect Ricochet to care. He expected Ricochet — a lowlife, scum, or so Prowl had always thought — to take his pleasure, revel in the chance to so thoroughly humiliate a police officer, and leave Prowl to pick up the pieces of his shattered psyche alone… 

“Shhh… “ Ricochet said again, pulling Prowl back against his chest. That pulled his hips against his tormentor’s erection and Prowl hiccuped in panic. “I got ya. Ain’t gonna frag if you don’t want. Just gonna hold you. Breathe. See if you can tell me what you need.”

“Don’t leave!” Prowl gasped out, squirming. He didn’t mind mixing sex and aftercare, but…

“He needs fuel,” Jazz stated evenly from somewhere and Prowl hid his face against the table, engine hiccuping. He was supposed to go wake Jazz up once breakfast was ready! This wasn’t the routine! “Then he needs about six or seven solid joors of cuddling while he fluctuates between this,” almost on cue, Prowl’s frame shuddered in an uncontrollable wracking sob, “and his normal, more controlled moods. He needs his agency back, and he needs us there to help him get it.” 

Ricochet cradled Prowl against his frame. “Well obviously,” he said, petting Prowl’s head and back. “Was that what you were afraid of, Pet? That I was just gonna frag and forget? That I was just gonna leave?” 

He wasn’t? Prowl hiccuped again and nodded. 

A clawed thumb wiped away his tears. “Deserved that, I guess. I did say I’d stay until morning.”

Prowl closed his optics and turned his face, away from Ricochet’s gaze and into his hand. 

“Ain’t like I got anywhere pressing to be,” the dark twin said softly. “I’ve never left a lover to fall apart and I ain’t gonna start now.” 

A blanket settled over Prowl’s shoulders and doors. He looked up and saw Jazz smiling down at him an instant before he leaned down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “And I’m here with you for as long as you need. Forever.”

Prowl blinked, but his sobs had stopped. Lover? Forever? “Not,” his voice caught and he swallowed before starting again. “Not a toy.” 

Jazz flicked the tags. “What does this mean?”

It was a rote question, one that had a right answer they’d discussed before Jazz had ever put them on him. “Whatever I want it to. What I need it to.”

“So what does Property of Jazz mean right now?”

This also had a rote answer. Not one they’d ever _discussed_ but one that had become rote through repetition. “I’m allowed to fall apart. I won’t be discarded. I belong to you because you are my strength until I’ve found mine again.” 

Jazz flicked the tags again, making them _click-clink_ musically against each other. “And the other one?”

“I don’t have to submit during aftercare. ‘Fuck off’ is a valid response.”

“Can do that,” Ricochet interjected into the familiar, calming routine of call and response. “Didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“I—” Prowl blinked owlishly at the mech holding him. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He’d wanted to tell Ricochet to stop, but he also didn’t. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted with a flare of shame and a hiccuped sob. 

He could almost hear the twins exchange looks over his head. 

“Yes or no,” Ricochet commanded and Prowl felt his systems quiet. Yes or no. He could do a yes or a no. “Was the break down because you thought I’d leave you afterwards?”

“Yes,” Prowl whispered. 

“Well that’s not happening.” He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it. He paused, then shrugged. “All I needed to know really. Let’s get some fuel in you. Here or the couch?”

“Couch?”

“You got it.” Ricochet tightened his grip. Prowl wondered if he was going to try to carry him, but no. Even if Ricochet could hoist him almost effortlessly up on the table to frag, carrying him would be too awkward at the very least. He stood Prowl up on his own feet, supporting him when he swayed. 

Ricochet’s spike poked him in the hip, now nowhere near Prowl’s aft-port. 

Chest feeling tight with anxiety, Prowl blurted out, “I want you to finish first,” in a rush. 

Ricochet paused. “Finish what?”

“Interfacing. Sex.” Prowl swallowed, and his confidence failed, even as he found his feet and was able to stand up on his own. “You were—” 

“I _was,”_ Ricochet confirmed. “But not if it’s going to harm ya.” 

“I was scared you were leaving,” Prowl whispered. _I’m allowed to fall apart. I’m allowed to not be perfect. I will not be discarded._ “I wanted…” he didn’t know what he’d wanted. He’d just wanted because that’s what his dom had wanted, because he hadn’t yet been in the right headspace to refuse. That was still true-ish, but also not as much. “I want…to.” 

Ricochet cupped Prowl’s face and wiped tears away again. “I want to too,” he admitted. “You want a dom or an equal?”

“A dom.” Prowl turned his face into Ricochet’s hand and gratefully allowed himself to turn off his optics. “I’m not ready… “ _to be anyone’s equal._ A submissive wasn’t _less than_ his dom — doms — but he was allowed to cry, to be… an emotional wreck.

“Then let’s pick up where we left off,” Ricochet growled, and Prowl saw him step into the role. The mask. He’d never seen anything else from Ricochet, so he hadn’t recognized it before, but he saw it now. The sex-obsessed, jerk-aft scumbag wasn’t real. Or was, but in the same way that Prowl the uptight police officer was: just a part of him. The part that was allowed to care, but only as long as it didn’t incur risk. The hard, unyielding part that the world had said they had to be… Ricochet interrupted Prowl’s rumination by pushing him face-down onto the table again and hoisting him up by the crotch, letting his legs dangle in the air.

Prowl squawked. Free of the worry Ricochet was going to use him and leave him to pick up the pieces, he didn’t feel the conflict over enjoying the forceful handling. He shouldn’t, but he did. Property of Jazz. Different rules applied. He was allowed to enjoy this. 

Claws tweaked at something sensitive in his doors and Prowl moaned. “That’s more like it, Pet,” Ricochet murmured. 

His frame hitched when Ricochet pushed his thumb against his aft port and he squirmed. No. “No,” he said, flinching down to avoid Ricochet’s (imagined!) wrath. He opened his valve-cover, begging his dom to focus _there._ He was sore, yes, but his calipers were still lose enough to take a spike, and he was slick.

“Won’t,” Ricochet agreed. “Think you’re too tender there anyway. It’s okay. It was your first time. This time I have,” and the amorous petting disappeared completely. Prowl heard Ricochet fumbling with something. A crinkle, a tear, then a silent moment and Ricochet was back on him. “Better.” The flared head of his spike pushed immediately into Prowl, who arched into the invasion. “I ain’t so much a cad I’d risk leaving you sparked up.”

Prowl tried to figure out what he was talking about through the careful slow slide of being filled. Not stretched out to the limits of his specs, no, but Ricochet’s spike was a good size, and it was warm and it was _attached to Ricochet._ Fucked by a common criminal, again, but this time in a way that felt more like a lover than a plaything. He moaned—

Then yelped again when the sharp little bumps scratched against his sensitive valve-lining.

“Still good?” Ricochet asked, thrusting shallowly and dragging those bumps around, which made Prowl gasp and yelp again. 

“Sounds good,” Jazz confirmed. Shame flickered in Prowl’s tank for acting like a complete slut on his twin’s spike — it wasn’t even intentional! — but another, this time deeper, thrust drove the feeling away and he shrieked. 

“Figures you married a total masochist,” Ricochet huffed and Prowl felt a little bit like he should be apologizing for it, but he wasn’t given the chance. Ricochet pulled out so he could take Prowl in a single, hard plunge. He shrieked again. 

“I really did.” Jazz sounded pleased.

Grunting, Ricochet set a fast pace that Prowl wouldn’t have thought was a hard or bruising one. Those studs, which Prowl really thought he should recognize, felt like they were tearing him apart inside, but in the best way possible. No damage reports popped up on his HUD, but it still _felt_ like Ricochet’s spikes had sharp barbs that scratched against the sensitive mesh and overstimulated every already taxed sensor.

Prowl overloaded, clenching down on those barbs, which dug even harder into him as Ricochet’s thrusts became erratic. Prowl writhed, and cried out. Post-overload, those _hurt_ but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Ricochet to stop, not so close to his own overload. He squirmed, trying to push away and push closer at the same time. HIs hands were free, he wasn’t restrained, but he had no leverage. He—

He overloaded again, this time pulling Ricochet over that edge with him. 

Ricochet groaned and pushed himself off of Prowl. The barbs left his valve, and Prowl whimpered, and even he wasn’t sure if it was in pain or in loss.

He shivered, but he managed to lower himself to his shaky feet. Using the table as support, he twisted around to face Ricochet. 

He blinked, watching him shuck the studded vinyl condom off of his spike. Then blinked again. Oh. He remembered those. From his and Jazz’s stash. They hadn’t used them in a while because— “I have an implant,” Prowl said, noting his own dazed tone. He took the cup of fuel Jazz handed to him and sipped because he knew it was what his dom wanted. He didn’t feel hungry yet. “When we talked about sharing, we decided I needed something more reliable than those.” While Prowl had been at the medic, having the contraceptive implant surgically inserted into his gestation chamber, Jazz had gone to get the second tag engraved, and surprised Prowl with it when he’d been released. After that, he and Jazz had just… fallen out of the habit of using the condoms. Not for any reason, really, except after making the decision to not pause what they were doing to put one on often enough, they’d just… stopped thinking about it.

“Good to know,” Ricochet grumped, dumping the used sheath into the trash. Prowl knew the studs were tiny, much tinier than he always thought when he was being fragged by them, and while Jazz had never complained Prowl also knew some mechs found them uncomfortable, even with the rough part facing outward. Ricochet came back with his own cup. “Still might use them,” he commented. “Better safe than trying to figure out which identical twin sired your kid, and I liked how you screamed.” He sipped the fuel and made a face. “Gah. Next time make something that’s not so fragging sweet for me, will ya?”

Prowl opened his mouth to agree. To grovel for making it wrong… “I’m not your servant,” was what came out. He shivered, steeled himself, then finished. “Make you own damn breakfast.” 

Jazz laughed and hugged him, making Prowl’s drink slosh against the sides. Ricochet only looked mildly offended, and that more at his twin than at Prowl. “Sounds about right. Meanwhile, me and Prowl’ll be on the couch. I’ve got movie queued up that’s sad enough to justify some crying to start off our required eight joors of cuddling.”

Despite his stated distaste, Ricochet took a gulp of the too-sweet fuel. “Sure. Guess I’ll go get a towel.” He smirked and raked his gaze over Prowl’s frame. “Or ten.”

.

.

.


End file.
